Repulsion
by Claudaujay
Summary: Elphaba views men in a similar vein to animals. Brainless. Senseless. They both repulse her, and terrify her. Will the attentions of a Winkie prince change her perception, or unleash the demons lingering in her past? (Inspired by the Roman Polanski film of the same name)


_**Elphaba views men in a similar vein to animals. Brainless. Senseless. They both repulse her, and terrify her. Will the attentions of a Winkie prince change her perception, or unleash the demons lingering in her past? (Inspired by the Roman Polanski film of the same name)**_

 **So, I'm a fan of horror, romance and Wicked, so with this story I'm combining all three. Repulsion is an absolutely brilliant film, so if you're into that sort of stuff then I really suggest it, but as is usually the case with Polanski film it has its fair share of both physical and sexual violence. Most of that will translate into this story as well, but it will also have the practically mandatory Fiyeraba, because who doesn't love that? :)**

 **In regards to the Ultimate Test, I am still writiing that, just very very very slowly. I hope to get out a new chapter soon. Sorry for the delay! Please RR.**

* * *

 _ **Repulsion**_

 **Chapter One:**

Men.

Men are vile, loathsome creatures.

I walk at a brisk pace across the lush green grass. The river of suicide canal lies on my right, and the burning sun, bright as the day before and the day before that, bathes the campus of Shiz in a golden glow. Students lie under the shade of trees, enjoying this picturesque scene, this pristine weather no doubt sent from the Unnamed God so many of them seem to worship. I clutch several books to my chest, some required for the lecture I will soon be attending, others borrowed from the library for sheer enjoyment.

I can feel their gazes fix upon me as I walk past. I see the disgust in their eyes and the whispers on the wind that I know will follow along all too familiar lines. I wish for some power, some means of sinking into the ground and disappearing from view, from judgement, from ridicule. Yet my skin denies me even this. Even against the grass, it is too different a shade- emerald, and darker than the lighter tinge, the almost lime, of the vegetation beneath the soles of my feet. A practised facade of calmness is retained upon my face, however. This mask I've had years to perfect, ever since the days of my childhood in Munchkinland, is stony and emotionless and as natural to me as breathing.

There's something horribly obtrusive about the knowledge that they are looking at me though. For there is a clear distinction between them. Girls, my own gender, are frivolous and irritating and vain, but the smothering, the penetrative nature of their opposites, the people that we are supposed to find appealing, fills me with a feeling akin to nausea. Munchkins, Quadlings, Gilikins and Animals may be flawed in nearly every possible way, from their idiosyncrasies and shallow nature to their mere physical faults, but there is at least a common factor amongst us; the superior individuals have an intelligence that sets us apart from the animals, the distant brethren we no doubt evolved from (the Unnamed God certainly had nothing to do with it), that still live and breed and fester in the forests and the lakes and the trees. I suspect that they missed some vital stage of this past development.

I walk past them until I emerge over the slope of the embankment and the building I am heading towards comes into sight. The architecture of this place lies somewhere inebetween the superb and the absurd. All the structures boast an old-fashioned aesthetic, most likely typical of the period of Ozian architecture the university was establised in- architecture isn't a subject I have knowledge of, nor care about. Then, out of the blue, you will be faced with an ornamentation, a bizarre slant or curve in the wall, that seems decidedly out of windows are huge, allowing the passerby to see right into the lecture halls for the student's respective subjects, and the wooden doors are equally huge. It always take a certain degree of effort, on my part anyway, to open them.

The corridors are deserted. My arrival is routinely early, so when I step into the lecture hall, I am first and alone but for a rustling sound coming from a storage closet in the back. The class is Ozian History- my major. The teacher is Dr Dillamond, and as if on cue, the goat's head pokes around the door to the closet with a warm smile adorning his features. It evaporates when he realises it is me.

Nonetheless, he is not deterred from his customary greeting bleat. 'Good morning, Elphaba.'

I ignore him, and head up to the row of seats furthest away from him. I still hear the sigh he emits, defeated and frustrated. I have not spoken a single word to him since we met: the knowledge that this cold treatment bothers him more than the haughty glances he will receive daily from the rest of the students, and often his superiors, is somewhat rewarding. Being ignored by morons is hardly something to cry home about, but being ignored by his best student, who writes notes studiously, and wouldn't daydream if she was payed to do so, is evidently disheartening. I imagine he believes I am indoctrenated into the Wizard's Animals-Are-Inferior mentality, but in truth, I think of our esteemed leader's political oppression with much disdain. No. In truth, he is unfit to teach for an entirely different reason.

If I, unqualified though I may be, were inhabiting the palace in the centre of the Emerald City, and had the power to mould the land of Oz into any shape I wished, many changes would be in order. First on my long agenda would be the systematic subjugation of these... these grotesque abominations standing at the front of the nation's classrooms, and governing bodies, or even those studying like me. Many of them are now filing into the lecture hall, and I watch as they make their way up the steps and take their seats, distancing themelves from my isolated position at the top. Thank the non-existent divine entity. Many of them actually possess power! Their insatiable greed and lust has raped Oz since the beginning of documented history, and this power is so far-reaching that paradoxically the victims, the sufferers of their crimes, appear to have been force fed so much propaganda that they believe men truly are the best to be in control. Oh, they are so much wiser and more intelligent! And crueler. And wicked-

'Silence please! May I have all of your attention!'

Dillamond's signals that his lecture is to begin and the gosspiy chatter quietens down to a whisper. The goat then launches straight into our current topic, namely the second Ozma regime. Despite my open dislike of the one conducting my lesson, History is my major, and studying was my only motivation for attending university. That itself required a huge amount of persuasion.

Though life in general is overflowing with a constant stream of irritations, I find young people's hesitancy to display knowledge or individuality to be absolutely baffling. Whenever Dillamond pauses for an answer, or openly requests one, an awkward silence settles over the room. They are simple questions. They have chosen this subject, which implies some must find it inriguing. A missing gene for intellect should not make them completely incapable- they should not be devoid of passions. Talents. Those tiny details and differences that separate us from the masses, and which should evoke recognition rather than mockery. For some inexplicable reason, there's an apparent social stigma directed towards such displays. Instead, we strive to liken ourselves to others, and to fit into a specific crowd or group. Then again, perhaps my perception of this mentality stems from my own exclusion. Every day I am practically persecuted by those bastards for differences that I have no way of influencing or changing, and certainly didn't wish upon myself. The name "Elphaba" may as well be struck off my reluctantly signed birth certificate and changed to merely "green girl", or whatever predictable name they settle on in the moment.

Sometimes, I wonder why they don't just bring this long, drawn out trial of ordeal to an end. A scapegoat, such as the Animals, will only be tolerated until the anger of the majority reaches its breaking point, and in my case, men's instinctive desire for power will overcome them soon. I know their hideous fascination with me derives not from a sexual need, for only a man of standards so low it somehow manages to exceed the average could experience that towards an asparagus, but I have no doubt they'd resort to such tactics in order to achieve dominance. They sniff it out, scower the land for it, as a wolf might, amassing into their aforementioned social packs, so that when the inevitable capture is made, they can revel in it together.

I refuse to look up from my notes. I do not wish to give them the satisfaction. They want me to react, to show a defiance which will only excite them more. Their roving eyes are no doubt searching me up and down, from the ruffles of my blouse to the particulars of my face, desperate for a scent that will trigger the urges and spur their feral side into action. In every room I enter, and everywhere I may walk, they still remain, hunting me and learning my weaknesses and vulnerabilities before the day of the pounce arrives, where I will be pinned to the ground beneath a legion of snarls and stampeding paws, and claws and fangs will rip into my flesh and ravage my body dry. Then, once the bones of my mangled carcass are chewed to the marrow, they will roam off in search of greater prey in the never-ending cycle of their sickening existence.

Such is the nature of wolves.

Dillamond's droning meanders around some of the details of the tensions that had once existed between a Vinkun monarch and the Quadlings; my practised hand writes at the same pace, but an unexpected tension in my limbs forces me to, ironically, concentrate hard on concentrating. Being a sophomore and a bookworm of unbelievable proportions means I have raided Shiz's library during my stay, so unsurprisingly I have read ahead on all my selected subjects. Textbooks I know back to front. Is it really too great a demand to long for content more extensive and more valuable in the long run from my professors, rather than the basics which we go over far more than necessary? The seconds drag by and soon turn into wasted minutes, before finally, the lecture grinds down to a halt.

I stand up and begin to pick up my books, but the sound of poorly disguised chuckling from the next row assaults my eardrums. I know instantly who the source of it is, for only a Miss Pfannee and her two equally annoying friends, Shenshen and Millia, could produce a sound of such a ridiculous high pitch. Worse still, they are accompanied by a scourge- a malignant cancer on society even greater than themselves. I feel no desire of any kind to talk to them.

As I walk past, a pen falls to the ground in front of my feet. 'Oh, Miss Asparagus. How convenient. Would you mind picking up my pen for me?'

I turn my head very slowly and fix Avaric Tenmeadows with a glare I hope will ignite his body into a roaring inferno, until he is rotting as a pile of ash in the dirt. There would be no better place for him. He has the physical appearance of a Margreave but the charm and tongue of a viper. Whereas regular people enjoy regular hobbies, like reading in the case of Yours Truly, he enjoys sexual perversion. His escapades with half the female residence of Shiz in shrubbery and storage cupboards are well known, and this disgusting habit he parades as widely as his wealth, though instead of receiving mistreatment and retribution, he basks in the admiration of his peers, as if they don't care. As if they don't notice. I notice it, just as I notice the suggestive nature, the innuendo, underlying his horrid request of me. Perhaps the comment that had his company in uproar moments ago was speculation on whether I was green all over? Only one way for him to find out.

A sharp kick sends the pen flying away. It's not like he would ever utilise it properly. I can tell he's a little shocked by my action (dare I suggest that's just the regular speed of his few brain cells?) but I don't give him the additional time to comprehend it.

'Does she ever speak?' Milla said loudly.

'Don't encourage her. If her voice is as ugly as her skin, then I'd prefer not to know.'

Their laughter follows me out of the lecture hall.


End file.
